


The Writing Desk

by RitaM



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 21:36:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8176912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RitaM/pseuds/RitaM
Summary: The letter writing desk where he writes on her, tongue greedy, eyes (maybe) closed. It happens in the dark, like he can't bear for her to see him submit.





	

They never talk about it. Even though they talk about everything else. Phryne knows that it's off limits and for once in her life, doesn't push.  
Jack is a buttoned-up marvel and when he takes off the suit, he continues to be marvelous. He's marvelous against the wall, fantastic on the carpet, masterful in bed. But she likes her writing desk best.  
The letter writing desk where he writes on her, tongue greedy, eyes (maybe) closed. She's never seen it. It happens in the dark, like he can't bear her to see him submit. Her Jack, always in control. Not unlike herself. And yet.

She's never seen it, but imagined it plenty.

It first happened when she rose from his lap after an excellent, if conservative, bout of lovemaking. She thought him asleep and walked around softly, seeing to her ablutions, bundling discarded clothing in one place for Dot to deal with, putting on silk nightwear. He looked beautiful - debauched, half-dressed, resting on top of the covers, discarded tie strewn across the pillow.  
She lit a candle by her writing desk, brow furrowed. Just a tiny errand to run. She wouldn't normally do it while having a lover over, but he was a frequent guest and a trustworthy one.  
She'd heard him move and in seconds his tie was wrapping 'round her eyes, candle extinguished.

"Jaa-aaack...." she laughed. And then he fell to his knees and she wasn't laughing anymore.

She didn't feel it to begin with - just a displacement of air, sudden appearance of warm limbs by her thighs. He licked her knee, nipped at the upper part of her thigh and her legs splayed, bare under the slip.  
He didn't speak - not the first time, not after. Torturously slow, caressing with fingers and lips, nosing around the crease of her belly. She could hear his breathing speed up, then slow, as if he was trying to pace himself. And then her own cries filled the air and she forgot to listen for him.  
He never comes inside her, after. He'll sharpen his tongue into a point and feel for her, seemingly as blind as she, learning by touch. He'll write her entire stories, drive her to the brink, utterly insane. And then over. And over. Until she stops him and not a second before.  
When she slumps forward, cheek on inkblot that will stain his beloved tie, he won't say a word. He'll carry her to bed and disappear, crawling back in when she's insensate with sleep that follows deep pleasure.  
She loves it. Every time, she wants more. Just once, she'd like to see his eyes as he leans in to write her a letter.


End file.
